Masquerade, and twisted around sinuously, drawing mana from within my body, concentrating it in my hands, and letting it sparkle across every inch of my tattoos. I prayed this would work; I’d never tried it before. It relied on one very simple thing: magical tattoos aren’t just designs. Their meaning depends on the intent of their wearer.
The vines on my body leapt out into the air into a beautiful spiral cloud, and I stretched forth my hands and murmured, “Spirit of fall:peace, and quiet” I could have said anything, but somehow, I knew just what I wanted and just what to say. It was perfect—and a thousand falling maple leaves in a hundred different colors seemed to detach from the vines and blew gently into the entrance, a glowing, quiet wind.
I stared in awe at the magic I’d created. I’d never understood the full extent of my power until that moment. The crucible of the last few days had opened me up to profound sensations, and my new role as Cinnamon’s protector added a fierce rush of energy to my fear and … and my rage. Suddenly, I commanded a universe of raw emotion, all of it bursting from the visions inked on my skin.
Two men ran out in complete silence, their mouths moving without sound. One drew a gun and raised it at me, and I curled the opposite way, murmuring, “Spirit of home: safe and sound.” The vines contracted, the remaining leaves curling around me, and the bullet he fired bounced harmlessly, almost soundlessly, away.
One of the men paused, but the shooter kept running straight at me, raising his gun like a club. I cried, “Spirit of fire: color and light!” and the head of the dragon reared up, dousing his face with a rainbow of flame. But I could tell I was running out of juice, so as he fell back, I clenched my fists, concentrated on my back, knelt and said, “Spirit of air: take to flight!”
A hawk tattooed onto my back detached itself and flew at the final man, who ran away, screams muffled by the silence spell. The shooter was writhing on the ground, his face a flickering mass of tattooed fire, his cries silenced by the gentle fall of glowing maple leaves. He’d live, but would be sore as hell with some pretty hardcore face tattoos. Walrus was similarly gone—but as I turned, Baldy stood back up, blinking.
I decked him flat, and my knee started to throb.
I left the downed guards outside and stepped into the Masquerade. The lights were out, but I could see pretty clearly. The stairs to Heaven were blocked off with boards and the door to Hell was locked, but Purgatory was open. As I moved out of the range of the dissipating silence spell, I started to hear the world around me again. Then a deep, resonant voice spoke, closer than I expected, and I ducked down.
“Show me,” the voice commanded.
“Let’s save it, at least until the guards bring her in,” a petulant, higher-pitched voice responded. “After all, I prefer to work with an audience—”
“Stop balking,” the voice said. “Show me what you mean by ‘creative.’”
“You don’t get it, do you,” the petulant voice said. “Sure, you’ve got the guts to strip off a bit of skin of someone you’ve killed—”
“I must work on the living,” the deep voice said. “The magic will not work otherwise—”
They were at the far end, at the little dance area past the DJ stand. I crouched low, trying to worm my way along the right wall to the bar, to get closer. There were piled boxes and glasses at the end of the bar; slowly I raised my head up, to get a better view. There was a rough table, a steaming black kettle, and—
Transomnia, holding the pruners in one hand—and Cinnamon aloft in another.
38. GLOVES OF LIQUID FIRE
“Sure, you work on the living, but you never make it last,” Transomnia said. He’d upgraded his coat to a long, black Hellraiser affair. In one hand he effortlessly held Cinnamon, whimpering and bleeding, arms bound behind her with silvery barbed wire. In the other, he held the pruners, twitching, snipping the air with them. “You’ve got guts. But no strategy.”
“You’re stalling,” the other figure said, a shorter, hooded figure in an ornate brocaded robe whose face was completely hidden from view. “You don’t have the will to—”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” Transomnia said. “You’re an expert at sacrifice,